Major Arcana
by CarmineDuvale
Summary: Drabbles and Assorted Ficlets. So far: Narcissa Malfoy, Deamus, Flintwood, Flintwood.
1. Narcissa Malfoy

Her Grandmother Rosier had taught them to weave. She'd been a Black before marriage, another lovely example of the interbreeding her family often partook in, and she'd been the only one pleased when Druella'd had three daughters.

Walburga bemoaned, and Cygnus kept a political sort of quiet that was even louder, and their mother's gaze seemed to become more and more fanatical with each sharp edge sharpened and each round curve rounded until she looked downright insane and her daughters were polished to an apparent perfection that trembled when not watched.

 _(It was almost always watched.)_

Grandmother Rosier just clucked but then, she clucked at anything. She clucked disappointedly when she saw Sirius, and pitifully when she saw Regulus, and she received the three of them in her folds with a kind of affectionate clucking Druella disapproved of and called coddling.

It wasn't coddling. It was another primordial goddess to please, another altar to bleed on, just another relative set apart from the rest by the simple reason she rejoiced in seeing them.

 _(It wasn't, Narcissa told herself after kissing Draco's skinned knees and cuddling him to sleep, anything close to coddling.)_

Grandmother Rosier hexed, lightly at first, harder the more mistakes they made, and jabbed sharp fingers between their ribs, and pinched the skin of their arms where it was softer, and she instructed them in the arts.

In between, she told stories. She knew the family tree by heart, back to Merlin and back to times Merlin was not even a thought, back to the time before they'd left the old country.

She had ideas.

"Blacks got their magic for the Moirai," she'd say and she'd tap her wand on Bellatrix's cheek when she became sloppy – and Bella often did – and a bruise would blossom there, the same pain behind it as if it were gifted the old, abject Muggle way.

 _(Grandmother Rosier never hit them outright. None of their family members did. That was crass. Wands, they said, existed for a reason.)_

"That's why we weave," and she'd slice open the tip of Andromeda's fingers.

"You're a full circle," and Narcissa's throat would tighten nd tighten.

When the woman died, they didn't mourn. Narcissa put her threads away with the old stories and focused on pleasing the titans that remained.

She got them out years later when the War ended and she needed them again.


	2. Dean Thomas x Seamus Finningan

The new kid looked like he'd been fighting the war with his bare hands for the last months.

"I told him where to find us." Dean fiddled guiltily with the top button of his coat, refusing to meet Ted's eyes. "I wrote him on my DA coin and told him we'll be here for a while. That - that if he wanted to come, I'll temper with the wards so he could find us."

"I understand." Ted rubbed the rough material of his gloves against his aching arms. "But the Snatchers could've found us just as well. You should've told us."

Dean nodded, miserable.

"I know. But you would've said no." His fingers wrapped around Seamus' skinny wrist, holding tightly. "I'm not sorry. He couldn't stay there anymore."

Ted took in Seamus' tumefied face, the way the bruises and cuts clung to one another insisting to tell their story. Behind the redness and the swelling, his burning gaze refused to stray from Ted's. He wondered if a boy with eyes like that would've run away for anything he deemed less precious.

Their companion had no such worries.

"Well, he can't stay here either, kid." Griphook stroke the steel against the flint again, trying in vain to light a fire. The wood they'd found, as wet as the ground they were all huddled on, refused to burn. The goblin hissed in disgust. "It might have escaped your notice, but we're not exactly in the position of taking joining applications at the moment. He has to leave."

Dean's shoulders dropped, but he took a deep breath, steeled himself and grabbed the straps of his rucksack, dragging it closer.

"Fine." He tugged on Seamus' hand, making to get up. "We'll leave, then."

"That won't be necessary," Ted sighed. He took another look at the kid, at the way he'd managed to wiggle his palm around until he'd linked his fingers with Dean's. At the way he stroked his thumb against the dark skin in a soothing gesture. Ted's heart constricted with longing for his wife. "Of course he can stay. You both can stay," he loudly repeated over the protests.

"Sure, let him stay," Griphook mumbled. "Let the entire country stay. Invite the French, too, there's space." He furiously rubbed the steel and the muddy flint, his face becoming redder and redder. "We'll end up dead. So dead. The deadest. Only Potter'll be deader than us and not for lack of trying."

"We won't," Ted reassured. "Three can hide just as well as four. Especially when they have someone with your incurable optimism around."

"We'd hide just fine in our graves, too, Tonks," Griphook insisted. "But I don't want to go there yet."

Seamus Finningan scooted closer to the pile of branches and took the flint from goblin's hand.

"Would you like me more if I told you I got rum?" he said, rearranging the pile of wood and prodding with a dirty nail at the piece of steel.

Griphook eyed him suspiciously, seemingly carrying a long fight with himself.

"What kind?" he finally asked.

"The kind that can't be drunk in the bloody cold," Seamus said.

He moved his hands fast enough to catch a snitch and the fire ignited with a loud crackle. From the corner of his eyes, Ted saw Dean Thomas finally smile.

* * *

 _ **I wrote this for croatianmary over on**_ tumblr _ **. The prompt was "And then, suddenly, there was another."**_


	3. Marcus Flint x Oliver Wood

The thing with Marcus's parents was that they cared. The problem was that the amount of care they exhibited was proportional with the way it affected their image and whether that was a direct or indirect ratio was, most often than not, a bitch to figure out.

Marcus prided himself in having done so pretty well this far.

He'd become shiny and polished, a trophy man to go with his many trophies, with his medals and with his ribbons and with all his sport equipment, and he'd tried to fill with all of those the big gape of restlessness no amount of concentration seemed to kill. He'd battered the skin of his knuckles in parts of town where his parents thought the light never shone and scuffed the leather of his shoes in bars where no one checked if his ID matched his image, and he'd swallowed all his feelings down and down and down so they wouldn't have to care about pretend-caring and – All that effort should have brought him somewhere different. Anywhere different.

"One phone call, son."

The police station was cold, the chair was wet and the leather jacket – old, soft, still carrying the memory of the scent of someone who'd pretended not to notice it had gone – the leather jacket was lost.

The handcuffs made his wrists hurt. _Everything_ hurt, from his ribs to his jaw to his head that was unbearably pulsing.

Tom Riddle had been a bad idea and a bad idea that he hadn't even wanted. His father, though, had ridiculous pride, and a ridiculous record of mistakes, and a ridiculous ambition to continue breathing, and Marcus had been handed his life on a silver platter he wanted to spit on. And now he was _here._

The policeman – _Officer A. Moody_ written in bold letters on his tag – was still waiting.

"I don't really have anyone to call," Marcus said, eyes glued to his shoes.

His father would not even pick up. Riddle – Riddle would just make sure someone with a knife tripped close enough to Marcus to make it seem an accident.

"You sure?" The old man scratched his ear, bewildered. "What about your parents? Your girl? Doesn't have to be family. Your dog walker would do. "

An idea flashed in Marcus's mind and, though it made his stomach churn, he grabbed at it desperately. He knew someone like that, someone who wasn't his parents, and who liked dogs without getting into his head the absurd notion of walking an entire hoard and – someone who wasn't Marcus' girl but had been his someone, long ago, not so long ago, someone he had swallowed down, down, down, like all those feelings.

"Yeah," he mumbled, "yeah, ok, I'll – uh – try that. Yeah."

The number was so seared in his mind he'd dialled before he caught up with himself and then it was done. One call. No turning back.

The phone rang once, then twice, then a third time – Marcus started wounding the cord around his finger. His foot tapped. His heart sped up to the point he thought it'll just jump out and a make a run for it.

He answered right after the churning anxiety inside Marcus's stomach had turned to ash and the fear in his mouth had soured.

"Wood," the gruff voice said.

Marcus's entire body jolted. He wanted to smash the phone back in his holder. He wanted to punch someone and cry. He wanted to punch someone again, and hug them, and –

"Hi," he said instead, fingers pressed so tightly against the plastic handle they whitened. "It's me."

"Who are –" A long pause. It fit all the seconds in the last two years inside. "Flint?"

Marcus wished he could see Oliver's face because his voice was – expressionless and blank and doing strange things to his heart. He swallowed hard. Behind him, the policeman cleared his throat diplomatically.

"Yeah, it's me," he said before he could lose his courage. "I don't really have time to explain but how many blowjobs would ask for to pay my bail, Oliver?"

* * *

 _ **so, this has been on tumblr for a while - not gonna lie, I heavily rewrote it, so I dare say it's better now. it has also been here for a short while and then I took it down because it was bad and I didn't want to rewrite it at the time. but now, that it's a bit more polished and because I have an exam tomorrow, and because I would really like to hear something nice, I'm throwing it in this collection. the prompt was "police station"**_

 _ **thank you for your nice comment on the last drabble. I'm glad you all enjoyed it.**_

 _ **Batrisakapadia, your request has been noted:***_


	4. Oliver W x Marcus F

When the boy opened his eyes, his car was at the top of a Ferris Wheel he didn't remember getting on. He did, however, remember a shouting voice and it soon got to him again, even through the sounds of the brewing storm.

A look down confirmed the man it belonged to waited on the ground and the Wheel lurched to a stop almost as soon as they were at the same level. There was something almost familiar about him, about his scarred face and wooden cane, but there was something almost familiar about everything and so he did not put much trust into that.

"What do you think you're doing?" the stranger demanded. "The fair's not open tonight."

He looked around, at the empty booths and the abandoned tables, at the strange banners advertising the Peacotum Festival and finally down at his shoes. They were splashed with still fresh mud; he couldn't remember how it got there.

"What the fuck's a Peacotum?" he asked.

The old man – the boy's eyes zeroed in on something carelessly pinned on his shirt that looked alarmingly how his hazy mind insisted a police badge did – dragged a hand down his face with the weary sigh of the forever nagged.

"Something astoundingly ridiculous, kid." The maybe-policeman grimaced. "And yet, unlike your little mishap here, not illegal. How did you even get this thing to work? The cabin's closed."

The boy looked back at the Farris Wheel he had undoubtedly just ridden. It loomed huge and unmovable and he suddenly felt bone deep tired.

"I have no idea," he answered honestly. "Listen, ugh –"

"Officer Moody," the man supplied.

"Yes, right. Officer Moody." He shoved his hands in his pockets and barely resisted the urge to rock back on his heels. "This might sound very stupid but - have you actually seen me get on?"

Moody peered at him as if he really _was_ stupid. He probably deserved it.

"I swear it's like your generation doesn't even _bother_." He sniffed, almost offended. "Back in my day, we at least _tried_ to get out on technicalities." His brows furrowed further. "What's your name?"

Yes, what _was_ his name? He realized with vague awareness he didn't know. He should have probably panicked and yet, he felt surprisingly calm, as if resigned to the emptiness swirling in his mind. The boy shrugged; and continued shrugging. Parents? Shrug. Contacts? Shrug. Address? Shrug, shrug, shrug until the policeman grew tired of him and the vague amusement in his eyes flickered out.

"Come on." Moody gripped his forearm and guided him through the booths. "We'll let you think things through at the precinct, yes?"

The first glimpse of himself the boy got was in the window of a police car - wide shoulders, wet hair, a leather jacket softened by wear thrown over a faded green t-shirt. The words Montrose flashed back at him in a silvery white.

Moody crouched in front of the window and knocked on it rapidly.

"Wood," he snapped. "Wood! Get off those blasted things and open the back, will you?"

The boy watched as the passenger door opened and a body topped with a mop of curly hair unfolded. It stretched until its joints cracked and then it seemed to fold back again, gracefully displaying all his lines. Moody cleared his throat, annoyed. The young man in possession of the body turned around with his mouth half opened in a grin. He seemed on the verge of sharing a joke. It died on his lips as he took them in. His brows furrowed like inverted parenthesis.

"Marcus?"

He sounded incredulous. He sounded – far away. Crushed.

Marcus took in the high cheekbones, the wide surprised brown eyes, the way the full bottom lip was sucked between teeth in what he immediately knew to be distress. His gaze swept hungry over to Wood's wrists where, clear as day, looping tattoos that he knew matched his own peeked through shirt sleeves.

The numbness dissipated and sadness crashed into him like a tide. Fury followed it almost immediately.

"Oliver," he spat.

* * *

 ** _In which Oliver and Marcus are back, and Officer Moody is at the center of another drabble because I kind of like this three characters together. I don't know, man, enjoy review comment please and thank you bye_**


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